


The Freak of Notre Dame

by KitanaRiddle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Disney, Crack, Emotional Abuse, F/M, Kinda Dark, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 18:19:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitanaRiddle/pseuds/KitanaRiddle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Hunchback of Notre Dame crossover with Jim Moriarty as Claude Frollo, Sherlock Holmes as Quasimodo, John Watson as Esmeralda and Mycroft Holmes as Phoebus.  </p>
<p>Based completely off the Disney movie, not the book. Don't say I didn't warn you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Freak of Notre Dame

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed
> 
> And also, I don't own Disney or Sherlock. This is my disclaimer.

_Morning in Paris, the city awakes_ _To the bells of Notre Dame_  
 _The fisherman fishes, the bakerman bakes_  
 _To the bells of Notre Dame_  
 _To the big bells as loud as the thunder_  
 _To the little bells soft as a psalm_  
 _And some say the soul of the city's_  
 _The toll of the bells_  
 _The bells of Notre Dame_

_Listen, they're beautiful, no?_  
 _So many colors of sound, so many changing moods_  
 _Because you know, they don't ring all by themselves_  
 _Up there, high, high in the dark bell tower_  
 _lives the mysterious bell ringer._  
 _Hush, and Anthea will tell you_  
 _It is a tale, a tale of a man and a monster._

Dark was the night when our tale was begun on the docks near Notre Dame. Mummy Holmes cradled her three year old son snug in her arms while her husband guided their ten year old son by his hand. Word had spread that their kind, those who studied science, were practicing witchcraft and were to be condemned. They waited under the darkness of a bridge for their contact to arrive when the noise of arrows soaring through the sky alerted them it was a trap. They were surrounded as a short figure appeared on a dark stallion. Judge Jim Moriarty longed to purge the world of vice and sin and he saw corruption everywhere except within.

“Bring these sorcerous vermin to the palace of justice,” Jim sneered as his guards surrounded the Holmes family.

One of his guards reached to grab the children from their parents when Mummy Holmes punched him and sprinted away with Sherlock. Her husband pulled Mycroft in the opposite direction and soon the family was being pursued by the guards. Judge Moriarty reared his horse and took off after Mummy. She reached the church and pounded on the door.

“Sanctuary, please give us sanctuary,” she screamed, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Moriarty caught up with her and pulled her son from her arms, knocking her to the ground and causing her body to slam into the stone steps. He watched with a smirk as a pool of blood formed under her head. Gazing at the child, Moriarty decided to drown the demon child in the nearby well.  As he held the baby over the opening he was stopped by a cry.

“STOP!” Archdeacon Anthea yelled from where she clasped the baby’s dead mother, “See there the innocent blood you have spilt on the steps of Notre Dame.”

“I am guiltless,” Jim spat, “She ran, I pursued.”

“Now you would add this child's blood to your guilt on the steps of Notre Dame.”

Jim hesitated, “My conscience is clear.”

Undeterred Anthea continued, “You can lie to yourself and your minions; you can claim that you haven't a qualm. But you never can run from nor hide what you've done from the eyes, the very eyes of Notre Dame.”

And for one time in his life of power and control, Moriarty felt a twinge of fear for his immortal soul.  He lowered the child from the well and narrowed his eyes at the Archdeacon.

“What must I do?” he asked.

Anthea met his glare with one of her own, “Care for the child, and raise it as your own.”

“What? I'm to be settled with this science worshiping…Very well. Let him live with you, in your church,” Jim pulled the blanket from the boy’s face and stared at him.

“Live here? Where?”

_“Anywhere._ Just so he's kept locked away where no one else can see. The bell tower, perhaps. And who knows, our Lord works in mysterious ways, even this foul creature may yet prove one day to be of use to me.” Moriarty ran his finger over the stitching of the boy’s blanket; it read _Sherlock._

* * *

An adult Sherlock jumped down from the beams where he was ringing the bells and began to write in his notebook.  There were figures and pictures of sound waves, formulas to calculate the speed of sound and the changes the different sized bells made the waves form. He was distracted from his work by the noises of the town bellow.

“Hey Sherlie,” the gargoyle named Henry appeared at his side, “what’s going on down there? A flogging?”

“A festival,” the second gargoyle, Molly, answered.

“You mean the Feast of Fools? Alright!” Henry cheered.

Molly smiled, “It is a treat to watch the colourful pageantry of the peasant folk.”

“Yeah watching…” Sherlock sighed and turned back to his work station.

The third and final gargoyle, Mrs. Husdon appeared and patted Sherlock on his shoulder, “I know dear. What good is watching the festival when you never get to go enjoy it? You’re not made of stone like us.  Did you ever think of going there instead of simply observing?”

“Sure,” Sherlock mumbled into his arms, “but I’d never fit in out there.  I’m not… normal.”

Molly grabbed his arm and pulled him to stand, “As your friends and guardian we insist you go to the festival.”

“Me?”

“It would be a very educational experience. You can only learn so much from observing this far away,” she asserted, “you can learn to identify more thorough human behaviors.”

“Not to mention the women!” Henry interrupted.

“Sherlie, take it from an old spectator. Life’s not a spectators sport. If watching is all you’re going to do, you’re going to watch your life pass right by you,” Mrs. Hudson added.

“You’re all forgetting one big thing, my master,” Sherlock gestured to the drawing of Moriarty nailed to one of the cross beams, “And he hates the Festival of Fools. He’d be furious.”

“Who says you have to ask,” Henry spoke slyly, “You sneak out and sneak back in. One afternoon!”

Sherlock covered his face with his hands, “If I got caught…”

“It’s better to beg forgiveness than ask permission.”

Molly threw a long coat and blue scarf at her friend, “You could wear a disguise. Ignorance is bliss.”

Sitting quietly for a moment, Sherlock perked up, “You know what, you’re right. I’m going to march down there, walk out the door and-”

His descent down the stairs, as well as his speech, was cut short by the appearance of a man. Judge Jim Moriarty stood before him, holding a small basket.

“Good morning Sherlock,” the smaller man cooed, rage hidden in the false tone, “Dear pet, whom ever are you talking to?”

“My friends, master,” Sherlock stuttered out.

Moriarty turned to look at the stone statues and knocked on Henry’s head, “And what are your friends made out of?”

“Stone, sir.”

“ _Very good_. And can stone talk?” Moriarty sneered while Sherlock put away his notes and made room for their lunch.

“No it can’t.”

“You’re a smart lad Sherlock. Shall we review your alphabet?” Jim started to place a meager serving of food on Sherlock’s plate.

“Yes master, I’d like that very much.”

“A?”

“Abomination.”

“B?”

“Blasphemy.”

“Good, C?”

“Contrition.”

“D?”

“Damnation.”

“E?”

“Eternal damnation.”

“F?”

“Festival.”

Moriarty choked on his mouthful of wine and fixed Sherlock with his most vicious stare, “Excuse me?”

“Freak! I meant freak,” Sherlock cringed at his own mistake.

“You are thinking of going to the festival, weren’t you Sherlock?”

He followed Moriarty who began to pace furiously, “It’s just that you go every year master.”

“I’m a public official. I must go! I don’t enjoy a moment of it,” his master ranted while Sherlock trailed behind, “The dregs of human kind all mixed together in a drunken stupor, claiming to be scientist but instead defiling the ways of the church with their witchcraft.”

Sherlock hung his head, “I didn’t mean to upset you, master.”

“Sherlock can’t you understand. When your heartless mother abandoned you as a child anyone else would have drowned you. Is this the thanks I get for taking you in and raising you as my own?”

“I’m sorry sir.”

“Oh my dear Sherlock, you don’t know what it’s like out there. But I do; I do,” Moriarty grabbed Sherlock by his face and squeezed his cheeks as he spoke the next words, “The world is cruel. The world is wicked. It's I alone whom you can trust in this whole city; I am your only friend, I who keep you, teach you, feed you, dress you, I who look upon you without fear. How can I protect you, boy, unless you always stay in here, away in here? Remember what I taught you, Sherlock. You are a witches’ child and you are a freak and these are crimes for which the world shows little pity. You do not comprehend; I am your one defender. Out there they'll revile you as a monster. Out there they will hate and scorn and jeer. Why invite their calumny and consternation? Stay in here. Be faithful to me, grateful to me. Do as I say, obey, and stay in here.”

Moriarty twisted his mouth into a feral grin as Sherlock answered, voice heavy with shame, “You are good to me, master. I’m sorry.”

“You are forgiven. But remember Sherlock, this is your sanctuary.”

With a last pat to his pet’s cheek Moriarty twirled, his robes billowing behind him, and left down the stairs. Sherlock listened to the sound of him master’s shoes until they were no longer audible.

He began to imagine if he could walk amongst the people just once. He hungered to know about the lives of the people he'd watched so closely. Already he felt like he knew these people and yet they had no idea he even existed. Perched on the edge of the balcony gazing at the familiar faces he felt tears streaming down his own face.

* * *

In the streets below Mycroft Holmes gazed at a map with confusion on his face. His father had managed to sneak him into an orphanage before he ran off to deter the guards and ended up getting shot moments later; however, his actions were enough to give his son a chance at a free life. Mycroft had joined the King’s army at as soon as he could and returned as Captain Mycroft. He was making his way to the Palace of Justice when he spotted a young man kneeling over a leper in the street and applying salve to his skin. A small goat stood near the man holding herbs in a pouch across its neck.

The man reached into the pouch and was about to cover the leper’s wet skin with the leaves when a loud voice bellowed, “Stop witchcraft!”

Mycroft, knowing that it was men of science who saved his life during his service for the king, backed his horse up to trip the guards about to chase after the man. The guard fell into a pile of mud while the man he was attempting to arrest shot Mycroft a quick look and took off down the street with his goat running behind him.

“Oh dear, dreadfully sorry,” Mycroft mocked at the men his horse had faltered, “He’s just impossible to control.”

The guard who hadn’t landed in the mud drew out a knife, “I’ll teach you a lesson, peasant!”

Mycroft reached into his own sheath and drew out his long sword, “You were saying lieutenant?”

He blustered and put his sword away, “Oh Captain! At your service.”

“I know you have a lot on your mind right now but the Palace of Justice?” Mycroft coaxed.

The men led Mycroft down the streets until they reached the large stone building. It had been years since Mycroft had been there and he cringed thinking of all his people that were slaughtered; his own mother and younger brother were sent to their death there as well. He heard the sound of a whip breaching flesh and could hear the muffled screams of whomever was being punished. Judge Jim Moriarty stood, watching the scene, with a look of pure pleasure on his face.

“Wait between lashes or else the old sting will dull out the new,” the judge spoke with the confidence of experience in the matter of torture before he turned to address his new company, “Ah so this is gallant Captain Mycroft home from the wars! I expect nothing from the best from a man of your calibre.”

Mycroft resisted the urge to flinch away with the man caressed his cheek and leered at him, “And you shall have it sir.”

“You know my last Captain of the Guard was a bit of a _disappointment_ to me…” Moriarty paused as the noise of the whip was heard followed by a disgruntled scream, “Well no matter, I’m sure you’ll _whip_ my men into shape.”

The judge escorted Mycroft to the upper levels of the Palace, explaining why he’d called him from the wars, “It will take a firm hand to stop the feeble minded from being misled. Look Captain, scientists. They live outside the normal order, claiming to know things only God can be knowledgeable to. Their heathen ways inflame the lowest of instincts in the people. And they must be stopped.”

With a look of disbelief Mycroft answered, “I was summoned from the wars to capture healers and star gazers?”

“Ah the real war Captain is what you see before you. For twenty years I have been taking care of the scientists, one by one. Yet for all my success they have thrived,” Mycroft watched as Moriarty squished the few bugs crawling on top of one of the stones. Moriarty lifted the stone to reveal a nest of the swarming creatures before he rammed it back down forcefully to kill them, “I believe they have a safe haven within the very walls of this city. A nest, if you will, they call it The Court of Knowledge.”

Mycroft wanted to laugh at the man, had he taken him to this one spot just to prove his point vividly with the insect display? It was dramatic and Mycroft was almost impressed by the setup, had it not been so vulgarly ignorant.  The noise of cheering and laughter interrupted their meeting and the judge rolled his eyes and grimaced.

“Duty calls. Have you ever been to a peasant festival, Captain?”

“Not recently.”

“Well then this shall be quite an education experience for you. Come along.”

* * *

Meanwhile Sherlock had covered himself in the long coat and wrapped the scarf around his neck before edging his way down the tower to join the festival. There were men and women in outrageous costumed while they sang and drank throughout the streets. Sherlock felt himself get jostled about before he was shoved into a tent. The man in the tent threw a cloth over the table in front of him.

“Hey!” he shrieked, “Are you alright? You’re not hurt are you?”

Sherlock had managed to catch a glimpse of the vials, bottles and herbs on the table before they were covered, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

The man ran his hands over Sherlock’s head, checking for injuries, “there, no harm done. Try to be a little more careful.”

He guided Sherlock to the tent entrance but Sherlock could not contain himself, “If you add the willow bark and the spiraea it will make a stronger pain remedy with anti-inflammatory properties.”

With a startled look the man stared at him, “How did you…?”

“You had a diagram of the human body with circles around areas that commonly get inflamed as well as a collection of plants that are rumoured to ease suffering, it wasn’t a difficult leap. As well as your goat carrying a satchel around its neck, suggesting you gathered them yourself because you are a healer of sorts” Sherlock suddenly felt vulnerable as he made his deductions.

“That’s… brilliant! Quite extraordinary. John Watson,” the man stuck his hand out.

“Sherlock,” he took John’s hand, feeling the warmth of another human’s touch other than Moriarty’s for the first time.

A loud bang erupted outside and John gave Sherlock a wink, “That’s my cue to perform. Healing doesn’t pay the bills you know.”

He followed John out of the tent and watched as the healer disappeared into the crowd only to reappear from a cloud of smoke on the stage. Sherlock then noticed the cropped shorts and tight shirt the man was wearing. He watched in fascinated awe as John twirled about on stage and the women, and some of the men, in the audience began to throw gold coins. His mouth felt dry as the other man shook his hips and produced a silvery scarf from his pocket. John wrapped the scarf around himself and drug it down his body slowly while a cheer erupted from the audience.

“Look at that disgusting display,” Judge Moriarty hissed to Mycroft.

Mycroft was too busy scanning the crowd to notice the way Moriarty shifted in his seat. However John did notice and sauntered up to the man and perched on the edge of his seat. He then wrapped the scarf around Moriarty’s neck, kissed his nose and pulled the judge’s hat down over his face. Moriarty seethed with anger as John concluded his dance and collected the coins from the stage. It was then that Moriarty noticed the tall man staring at John.  _Sherlock._ His anger only grew and he whispered to one of his guards, Moran, and handed him a coin purse. The guard took the purse and paid the leader of the festival. 

Within a few moments the leader made his way on stage and announced loudly, “Now’s the moment you’ve been waiting for! We’ve asked you pick the biggest fool and here he is!”

Before Sherlock could stop the man, he had grabbed him hauled him on stage. The crowd roared and cheered with glee and Sherlock was stunned as they handed him a sceptre and crown.

“What’s your name, boy?” the festival leader yelled above the noise of the crowd.

“Sherlock, sir.”

A gleeful laugh erupted from the man’s mouth, “Here you have it ladies and gentleman! Sherlock sir is our new King of the Fools!”

Moriarty watched as Moran, hidden by the crowd, threw a ripened tomato that landed squarely on Sherlock’s face. As expected the horde joined in and soon Sherlock was bound to the stage covered in rotted foods. The man wasn’t crying but a look of pure terror was apparent on his face.

“Master!” Sherlock cried staring at Moriarty but the judge only crossed his hands and glared at his ward, “Master please help me.”

Captain Mycroft had been stricken still the moment he heard the name _Sherlock_ be announced. He couldn’t believe his brother was still alive, but the man on stage had his mother’s cheekbones and his father’s eyes and there was no denying his identity. Finally Mycroft found his voice as he asked permission to stop the spectacle.

Moriarty was too focused on Sherlock to notice the anxiety in Mycroft’s voice, “In a moment. A lesson needs to be learned here.”

To Mycroft’s relief the screams of the crowd silenced as John made his way back up the stage. He watched as John rubbed the mess off his brother’s face and whispered words of comfort to him. His relief was short lived when Moriarty stood.

“You, boy, get down at once!”

“Yes, your honor,” John replied firmly, “Just as soon as I free this poor man.”

“I forbid it!” Moriarty bellowed.

With a look of pure boldness, John pulled out a blade and sliced the bonds off of Sherlock.

“How dare you defy me!”

“You mistreat this poor boy the same way you mistreat my people! You speak of justice but you are cruel to those most in need of your help,” John declared strongly.

“Your people?” Moriarty snarled, “Mark my words, scientist, you will pay for this insolence!”

John grabbed the crown from Sherlock’s head and flung it to Moriarty’s feet, “Then it appears we’ve crowned the wrong fool. The only fool I see is  **you.** ”

“Captain Mycroft, ARREST HIM!”

Mycroft snapped his fingers and watched as John, and his goat, evaded his men by rolling and jumping through the festival grounds. The performers of the festival aided him and soon John disappeared within a flash of smoke. Moriarty turned and glowered at Sherlock, who still stood a mess on the stage.

“Find him Captain,” Moriarty ordered as he mounted his horse and rode up to Sherlock, “I want him _alive._ ”

Sherlock looked up at the man with horror in his eyes, “I’m sorry Master. I will never disobey you again.”

The crowd parted as Sherlock made his way back into the church. Mycroft wanted nothing more than to reveal himself to his brother, but he knew he was of more use to him by feigning loyalty to Moriarty. He watched his brother slip out of view behind the heavy doors before noticing the hooded cripple limp in a side door. Mycroft also noticed the goat trailing beside the man. He followed into the church, knowing it was the healer, and as he crept up behind the man he found himself flung to the floor with his own sword at his throat.

“You!” John growled.

“Easy, easy,” Mycroft inched away from the blade, “Just give me a chance to apologize.”

John’s eyes narrowed, “For what?”

Mycroft kicked at the healer’s feet, toppling him to the ground, and caught his sword as it flew through the air, “That for example.”

Before Mycroft could advance on the man, the goat rammed into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him, “Didn’t know you had a kid.”

“Greg doesn’t take kindly to stranger,” John retorted as he got up from the floor.

“I noticed,” Mycroft gasped catching his breath, “Please permit me. I’m Mycroft… and you are?”

“Is this an interrogation?”

Mycroft sheathed his sword, “It’s called an introduction. I won’t arrest you as long as you’re in here.”

“Huh, you’re not at all like the other soldiers. So if you’re not here to arrest me, what do you want?”

“I’d settle for your name.”

“John,” the healer replied, finally relaxing his tense stance.

Mycroft began to lean in towards the other man, about to divulge his true heritage when the church doors burst open.

Moriarty stood in the doorway, a look of triumph on his face, “ _Good_ work Captain, now arrest him.”

Seeing the look on John’s face, Mycroft turned to the judge, “I’m sorry sir; he claimed sanctuary. There’s nothing I can do.”

“Then drag him outside and-”

Moriarty was cut short by the appearance of Archdeacon Anthea, “Moriarty! You will not touch her. I seem to recall you learning years ago to respect the sanctity of the church.”

Even Mycroft felt chills down his spine at the expression on the judge’s face as he stormed away. Greg began ramming his horns at Mycroft’s arse to force him to leave and he did not witness Moriarty slip behind a pillar. When Anthea and Mycroft were no longer in view, Moriarty grabbed John from behind and pressed his entire body against the man’s back.

John gasped at the intrusion and listened as Moriarty hissed in his head, “You think you’ve out witted me, but I am a patient man. And witches don’t do well behind stone walls.”

Judge Moriarty gave into his temptation and licked a stripe across John’s neck, “I’m imaging a rope around that pretty little neck of yours.”

Attempting to wrench himself away in disgust, John answered, “I know what you were imagining.”

His last word turned into a cry as Moriarty sunk his teeth into his cloth covered shoulder before releasing him and finally exiting the church. John sank to his knees and held onto Greg, ignoring the nausea that was overtaking him.

“Don’t worry Greg. If Moriarty thinks he can keep us trapped in here, he’s wrong.”

Archdeacon Anthea crouched beside him and wrapped an arm around the healer’s shoulder, “You caused quite a stir out there at the festival. Perhaps it is wise for you not to anger Judge Moriarty further.”

“You saw what he let them do to that poor boy out there! I just thought if someone could stand up to him…”

“You can’t right all the wrongs of the world all by yourself, my dear,” Anthea helped John to his feet.

“Well no one out there is going to help, that’s for sure.”

With a knowing smile the Archdeacon spoke, “Then perhaps someone in here can.”

* * *

Sherlock was leaving the church baths, his tattered coat all that was saving his dignity when he noticed John staring up at the statue of Mary. Greg bleated when he saw the man and Sherlock took off up the stairs before John could see him.

“Wait,” the healer cried, watching the coat flow behind the man, “I want to talk to you!”

John raced up the stairs after Sherlock and was breathless by the time he entered the top of the bell tower. When he did he was stunned by the glass trinkets hanging from the ceiling, reflecting light into beautiful patters on the walls, and the piles upon piles of books scattered about. He saw Sherlock perched on a rafter above him.

“What is this place? Did you formulate this all on your own?” John gasped picking up one of Sherlock’s notebooks and leafing through it, “This is brilliant!”

The taller man came down from his perch and edged carefully towards John, “That thing you did for me, at the festival, that was good.”

John gave him a large smile, “If I were as smart as you I wouldn’t be dancing for extra money, that’s for sure.”

“But you’re a wonderful dancer!” Sherlock exclaimed before his cheeks turned pink in embarrassment.

“Thank-you… what’s this?” John gazed at the open notebook on the table.

“No! NO!” Sherlock cried, “I’m not finished yet.”

“Is that… a study on flies and their eye colors?”

John listened as his host muttered about dominant and recessive, not understanding fully, but being impressed nonetheless. It seemed that asking Sherlock about his researched opened up the man’s confidence and soon John found himself being led about the bell tower, learning about each experiment.

“You’re amazing,” the healer sighed as they sat atop the church roof gazing at the setting sun.

“You’re not like other scientists,” Sherlock placed his hand over John’s, “They’re evil and you’re perfect.”

“Who told you they’re evil?”

“My master, Moriarty.”

John turned his hand over and intertwined his fingers with Sherlock’s, “How did such a cruel man raise someone as brilliant as you?”

Sherlock looked startled, “Cruel? No! He saved my life. Anyone else would have drowned a freak like me.”

John took Sherlock’s hand and raised it to his mouth before turning it over and pressing a kiss to the palm, “That’s funny…”

“What?”

“Do you think I’m evil?”

“What? No! You’re kind, and you help people and you helped me; you’re perfect!” Sherlock looked offended by the idea of John being evil.

“Then Moriarty isn’t right about either of us it would seem.”

John pressed another kiss to Sherlock’s hand before staring at the horizon and sighing.

“You helped me,” Sherlock restated, “I’m going to help you escape.”

Before John could protest, Sherlock had grabbed him and Greg and began sliding down a series of ropes, secured by Sherlock’s homemade pulley system.  They were at the edge of the church when John tried to convince Sherlock to run away with him. After the other man protested adamantly the healer pressed a necklace into his new friend’s hand.

“If you ever need sanctuary, this will show you the way. Just remember when you wear this woven band; you hold the city in your hand.”

* * *

When Sherlock made his way back into the bell tower he was met by a soldier reading through his books.

“No soldiers!” he cried, grabbing a torch to defend himself with.

“Easy, Sherlock, easy!” Mycroft held his hands up to show he meant no harm, “all I want is to-”

“GO!” Sherlock cut him off, waving the torch in his face and forcing him down the stairs.

“Wait Sherlock!” the man protested.

Sherlock grabbed the soldier by his collar and dangled him so he would fall down the stairs.

“Listen to me a moment!” Mycroft tried to make his brother listen.

With a roar Sherlock threw the man down. Luckily Mycroft was able to stop his roll down the stairs before he developed more than a few bruises but by then his brother had returned up the stairs and latched the door to his tower. Sherlock leaned against his closed door, adrenaline rushing through his body.  He thought back on the warmth of John’s hand against his and blushed.

“Oh Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson jumped up to him, “Who was that handsome boy?”

Henry wiggled his eyebrows, “And the one without fur was good looking too!”

Molly smacked him across the head and put a hand on Sherlock’s arm, “He matters to you, doesn’t he Sherlock?”

Ignoring his gargoyle friends, the man curled up inside his favorite upturned bell and crossed his fingers under his nose.  He knew Moriarty had said no one could love a freak like him, but the way John had pressed him lips against his hand made him feel the way love was described in his books.

Henry poked his head over the lip of the bell, “Come on Sherlock, give us his name!”

With a dirty look he answered, “It’s John.”

He could hear Molly and Mrs. Hudson cooing over John and he called out, “Just because he makes my heart rate increase doesn’t mean I make his do the same!”

“Come now Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson’s stone head appeared beside Henry’s, “You’re quite the catch you know.”

Molly joined the other two and nodded enthusiastically, “Yeah Sherlock. If I wasn’t made of rock, I’d probably be smitten with you.”

Sherlock merely glanced at his friends before sinking into his mind palace and memorizing every look and touch that John had given him. He felt content for the first time in his life. 

* * *

However Judge Jim Moriarty did not feel contented like Sherlock. He was currently pacing his room in the Palace of Justice, fingers wrapped around John’s shimmering scarf.  The scientist had cast a wicked spell on him, he was certain. Moriarty could still remember the searing heat of John’s body as it was pressed against his in the church. The sound that he ripped from John’s throat when he bit him was haunting his thoughts.  He wanted to make the healer release more of those noises, some in pleasure and some in pain. Moriarty imagined stripping John of his little shorts and tight shirt before plundering his body with his mouth. It must be witchcraft!

He knelt on the floor in front of the fire and began to pray, “Beata Maria, you know I am a righteous man; of my virtue I am justly proud. Beata Maria, you know I'm so much purer than the common, vulgar, weak, licentious crowd. Then tell me, Maria, why I see him dancing there, why his smoldering eyes still scorch my soul. I feel him, I see him. The sun caught in his golden hair is blazing in me out of all control. Like fire, Hellfire, this fire in my skin. This burning desire is turning me to sin. Protect me, Maria. Don't let this siren cast his spell. Don't let his fire sear my flesh and bone. Let him taste the fires of hell or else let him be mine and mine alone-”

His prayer was cut off by a sharp knock at the door, “Minister Moriarty, the witch has escaped.”

“What?” his eyes flashed more dangerous that the fire.

“He’s no longer in the catherdral.”

“But how…? _Nevermind._ Get out you idiot. I’ll find him; I’ll find him if I have to burn down all of Paris,” Moriarty waited for the guard to close the door before adding to himself, “Now witch, it’s your turn. Choose me or your pyre. Be mine or you will _buuuurn._ ”

He rubbed John’s scarf across his face once more before tossing it into the flames and watching it smoulder away before collapsing in exhaustion in front of the fireplace.

When he awoke his body ached with desire more than the ache of a night’s sleep on the floors.  He passed an order that anyone harbouring scientists, specifically the healer, would be sentenced to death. They spent the morning overturning carriages and ripping apart houses that had any speculation of a scientist’s presence. Mycroft watched in horror but was relieved that Moriarty’s attention was fixated on finding John rather than punishing Sherlock. However, when Moriarty locked a family inside their house and set it on fire, the Captain could not stand idle.

Mycroft threw himself into the burning house and pulled the family, a young child included, out. When he saw the look of fear on the kid’s face he was reminded of the last time he saw Sherlock before their parents were murdered; Sherlock had the same expression. John had been watching from the rooftop of a nearby house as Mycroft was shot down for his insolence against Moriarty and he saw the man’s body convulse as an arrow pierced his shoulder and he plummeted into the icy river.

“Don’t waste your arrows,” the judge yelled as his guards continued to shoot at the water, “Let him rot in his watery grave. Find the boy, if you have to burn the city to the ground so be it.”

Once they had cleared off the bridge, John made his way down the riverbank and jumped into the water. He knew he was Mycroft’s best chance at surviving, if only he could get him somewhere safe. As he drug the water logged man out of the river, John heard the bells of Notre Dame begin to ring, sounding almost mournful.

Judge Moriarty heard them as well and it was then he realized Sherlock had helped the scientist escape.

“Sherlock fancies himself in love with the little witch,” he snarled to himself. 

* * *

Mrs. Hudson, Molly and Henry were staring out at the streaks of smoke and flames coming from the city while Sherlock rang the bells.

“It’s not looking good,” Molly whispered.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head, “Now don’t go saying anything to Sherlock, he’s worried sick as it is.”

“Here he comes,” Henry warned.

“Stone face,” Molly told them.

Sherlock sank down beside them, his eyes scanning the view rapidly, “Any sign of him?”

Molly lost her control and began to cry, “It’s a lost cause! He could be anywhere, in the stocks, in the dungeons. OH GOD!”

“Nice work Molly,” Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes.

“She’s right. What are we going to do?!” the man threw his arms out in frustration.

Henry, who had been quiet through Molly’s breakdown started to laugh, “What’re you guys talking about? If I know John, he’s three steps ahead of Moriarty and well out of harm’s way.”

“You really think so?” Sherlock peaked up a bit.

“Of course! You’ll see; when things cool off, he’ll be back.”

Disbelief crossed Sherlock’s face, “What makes you so sure?”

Mrs. Hudson ruffled his hair, “Because he likes you. With cheekbones like that he’d be crazy not to!”

Sherlock felt hope bloom in his chest.  Maybe Moriarty _was_ wrong, maybe there was love out there for him.  His thoughts were interrupted by a quiet whisper.

“Sherlock?”

He bounded down the stairs, “John! You’re alright, I knew you’d come back!”

“You’ve done so much for me Sherlock. But I must ask for your help one more time,” John called back in response.

“Yes, anything,” Sherlock answered moments before he reached the healer and saw him and another man carrying the body of Captain Mycroft.

“This is Mycroft. He’s wounded and a fugitive like me. I can try my best to heal him but he needs a place to rest. I knew he’d be safe here. Please can you hide him?”

Sherlock felt his heart drop into his stomach, “This way.”

He gestured to his own bed, more a pile of scrap fabric and hay, and watched as John placed the man down and checked his wounds. Sherlock stepped back, not wanting to know their intimate confessions. He had never felt such pain before, his chest was seizing and his supper was threatening to come back up.  Without looking back, Sherlock climbed to the balcony and let the smoky wind stop him from hearing the two men inside.

“That family owes you their lives,” John told Mycroft as he stitched up the wound, “You’re either the bravest soldier I’ve met or the stupidest.”

“Ex-soldier, remember,” the pain was evident in Mycroft’s voice.

John placed a moist bandage over the stitches, “Why did you do it?”

“When I was ten, my family and I were on the run from Moriarty’s wrath.  My father got me to safety before he was killed and I spent my entire life believing my mother and brother faced the same fate, but then one day I was watching a festival and discovered my brother had lived and was under the care of the monster that took our freedom from us.”

With complete shock John spluttered, “Does Sherlock know the truth?”

“I tried to tell him but he was too worried about keeping you safe to listen,” Mycroft placed his hand over John’s, “Please be kind to my brother for I fear he’s faced far more sorrow than he deserves.”

Sherlock returned in time to see John press a kiss to Mycroft’s cheek while the Captain slipped into unconsciousness.  Greg started to bleat and a glance over the balcony informed them that Moriarty’s carriage was on its way.

“Quick! You must go,” Sherlock ushered John down the stairs, “Use the side door.”

John gave him a strange look, as if he wanted to say something before nodding and heading out.

“We’ve got to stash the stiff!” Mrs. Hudson whispered urgently.

Sherlock heaved the unconscious man across the room and under the table, pulling the cloth down to conceal the Captain.  He barely had time to pull out the plates before Moriarty appeared.

“Oh Master!” Sherlock cried, trying to supress the fear he felt, “I didn’t think you’d be coming.”

Moriarty stroked his hand down Sherlock’s cheek, “I’m never too busy for you, my pet. I’ve brought you a little treat.”

Sherlock knew he was in trouble when the judge’s face maintained its savage grin while he placed grapes on a plate, “Is something troubling you my boy?”

“Oh… no!”

“But there is,” Moriarty held up the vine of grapes and pulled one into his mouth while another fell and rolled across the table, “I know there is.”

Sherlock watched the grape fall off the edge of the table and land beside Mycroft’s hand.  He picked it up slowly, eyes never leaving his Master’s.

“I think you’re hiding something.”

“Oh no Master! There’s no-”

Judge Moriarty interrupted him, “You’re not eating pet.”

He began to shovel the grapes into his mouth, ignoring the protest of his queasy stomach, “It’s very good. Thank-you!”

“I know what it is that you’re hiding,” Sherlock cringed as Moriarty stood from his chair, “You helped the scientist _escape._ Now all of Paris is burning because of you!”

Moriarty grabbed him by his shirt and threw him to the ground as Sherlock stuttered, “He was kind to me, Master.”

“You idiot! That wasn’t kindness. That was cunning. He’s a witch; witches aren’t capable of real love. Think, boy, think of your mother!” At this point Moriarty was straddling Sherlock, his hands fisted in the boy’s hair and ripping his head back so he could stare in his eyes.

It was the horrifying distress in Sherlock’s eyes that made Moriarty regain his control, “But what chance could a poor, freakish boy like you have against his heathen treachery. Well, never you mind Sherlock. He will be out of our lives soon enough. I will _buuurn_ the heart out of him. He will torment you no longer.”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock’s voice was barely a whisper as he tried not to fight against the death grip Moriarty had him in.

Moriarty pressed a kiss to one of Sherlock’s bruised cheeks, “I know where his hideout it. And tomorrow at dawn, I attack with a thousand men.”

Finally the judge released his hold on the boy and straightened himself out. As he walked down the steps of the bell tower, his snarling grin never faltered once.  Mycroft had reclaimed his consciousness during the exchange between the other two men and he crawled out from under the table.

“We have to find the Court of Knowledge before daybreak. If Moriarty gets there first… are you coming with me?” Mycroft pressed his hand against his injured shoulder, grimacing.

Sherlock had curled his legs into his chest and look up at the Captain, “I can’t.”

“I thought you were John’s friend!” Mycroft exclaimed.

“Moriarty’s my master. I can’t disobey him again.”

Mycroft felt confused at the change of his brother’s heart, “He stood up for you! You have a funny way of showing gratitude…. Well I’m not going to sit by and let Moriarty massacre innocent people! You do what you think is right.”

As Mycroft’s retreating steps echoed through the bell tower, Sherlock looked up to see the three gargoyles staring at him incredulously, “What am I supposed to do? Go and rescue John from the jaws of death and the whole town will cheer like I’m some kind of a hero? He’s already got his knight in shining armour and it’s not me! Moriarty was right. Moriarty was right about everything. I’m tired of trying to be something that I’m not!”

Sherlock’s chest was heaving after he finished his rant to his friends.  He could feel the necklace John gave him move with each inhale and exhale. Pulling it out and running his finger across the woven bands, he let Mrs. Hudson pass him his coat and scarf.

“I must be out of my mind,” he mumbled.

As Mycroft opened the door to leave the cathedral, Sherlock jumped down in front of him. The Captain jumped in surprise as his brother whispered, “Mycroft, I’m coming with you.”

“I’m glad you changed your mind.”

Sherlock shot him a dirty look, “I’m not doing it for you; I’m doing it for him.”

“You know where he is?”

“No, but this necklace is supposed to guide us there,” he held it up so Mycroft could see.

“Ah, it’s a map of the city,” Mycroft muttered after glancing at it quickly.

“You barely looked at it!”

Mycroft chuckled, “As I’m sure you barely did as well before figuring out what it was. Sherlock, you truly haven’t realized yet?”

As a confused Sherlock met Mycroft’s eyes he realized they were the same colour. He then noticed that their eyes had the same shape and they carried the same jaw structure, “But it can’t be!”

“I was ten when Moriarty killed our parents. I thought you had been murdered as well,” the Captain pulled Sherlock into a deep hug, “Now I have found you and I have a family again.”

They made their way, twisting through the streets avoiding guards, to the mark on the necklace. When they arrived at the cemetery it only took Sherlock a few moments to find the tomb marked with the same symbol of the necklace. Together the brothers heaved the concrete opening off and entered the darkened tunnels.  Despite only having the small flame of Mycroft’s torch, Sherlock could tell they were walking through sewage. He cringed at the filth of it, but carried on.

After they had walked quite a distance Mycroft stopped dead in his tracks, “It’s quiet… too quiet.”

Realization dawned on Sherlock as well, “We’ve walking into a trap!”

There was a rush of air and Mycroft’s torch went out, leaving the men in total darkness. It didn’t last long as multiple torches lit up in a vibrant green surrounding them. Before they could even attempt to defend themselves, they were bound and gagged. 

“Well, well, well,” a man had appeared, “What have we here? A couple of Moriarty’s spies. And not just any spies! His Captain of the Guard and his loyal bell ringing henchman.  Justice is swift in the Court of Knowledge. I am the lawyers and judge all in one. We like to get the trial over with quickly because it's the sentence that's really the fun!”

The brothers were carried to a large opening filled with tents and carriages. Unable to talk they were forced onto a stage where two nooses hung waiting. The man wrapped the ropes around their necks and tightened them before standing by the lever that would remove the platforms from beneath their feet.  Mycroft struggled against his bonds, staring at his brother with wide eyes when he realized he could not loosen them.

As the man reached for the lever, a voice screamed, “STOP!”

Everything hung on a thread right before John pushed through the spectators, “These men aren’t spies. They’re our friends!”

He untied the gags and before he could untie their bonds, Mycroft shouted, “We came to warn you! Moriarty knows where you’re hiding and he’s attacking at dawn with a thousand men!”

John finished untying them while addressing the crowd, “We must waste no time! We’ll leave immediately.”

 

He turned to Mycroft, “You took a terrible risk coming here. It may not exactly show but we’re grateful.”

Mycroft saw the look of jealousy flash on his brother’s face so he replied, “Thank Sherlock. Without his necklace I’d have never found my way here in time.”

Before John could embrace the man like he wanted, a terrible voice rung out, “Nor would I!”

Screams echoed through the chamber as Moriarty’s men invaded.  Mycroft, John and Sherlock found themselves surrounded as Moriarty sauntered up to them with a smirk.

“After twenty years of searching the Court of Knowledge is mine at last.  Dear Sherlock, I always knew you’d someday be of use to me,” he turned to the rest of the captives, “There will be a little bonfire in the square tomorrow and you’re all invited to attend… Lock them up!”

Sherlock threw himself at Moriarty’s feet, “No please, Master.”

Moriarty kicked Sherlock in the stomach and turned to his guards, “Take him back to the bell tower and make sure he stays there.”

* * *

The next morning the sky was still stained with the red and grey of Moriarty’s wrath. Sherlock’s feet were chained to the balcony, allowing him to see the square as a platform was placed down and surrounded by piles of wood. He listened as his Master stood in front of John, who was tied to a spike in the center of the platform.

“The prisoner John Watson has been found guilty of the crime of witchcraft. The sentence, death!”

Moriarty had guards keeping the Archdeacon Anthea stuck in the church and he felt giddy at the emotions in John’s bright blue eyes, “The time has come witch. You stand on the brink of the abyss, but even now it is not too late. I can save you from the flames of this world and the next.”

The judge paused to enjoy the whimper of fear the escaped John’s throat as he pulled down the man’s collar to stare at his own teeth marks in the healer’s skin, “Choose me or the fire.”

John spit in Moriarty’s face, defiance written over his features, which earned him a fist to his face. The judge ran his thumb over the blood leaking from John’s mouth before sucking on the finger. He then turned back to the outraged crowd, “The witch has refused to repent. This evil witch has put the soul of every citizen in Paris at risk.”

Sherlock stopped listening to the man’s speech and hung his head in defeat.

“Come on Sherlie!” Henry cried, “Snap out of it!”

“Your friends are in danger down there,” Molly added.

The chained man refused to look up, “It’s all my fault.”

“You’ve got to pick this lock!”

“I can’t. I tried. What difference would it make,” Sherlock spat out in anger.

Molly felt frantic, “You can’t let Moriarty win!”

“He already has.”

“So you’re giving up? That’s it?” Henry had never seen Sherlock look so pathetic.

Mrs. Hudson got right in Sherlock’s face, forcing him to look at her, “This lock isn’t what’s holding you back, Sherlock!”

“LEAVE ME ALONE!”

“Okay Sherlock,” Henry mumbled.

Molly sounded hurt as she said, “After all we’re just made of stone.”

With a sigh Mrs. Hudson added, “We just thought you were made of something stronger.”

Sherlock watched as Moriarty pressed his torch against the wood surrounding John, causing it to slowly ignite. The thought of losing John and his brother caused a sudden rush of anger. He grabbed the necklace from around his neck and pulled it apart to reveal the metal ring that created its shape. The broke the thin ring apart and began to pick at the lock. In almost no time the shackles around his ankles popped open and he was free.

John started to cough and choke as he watched Moriarty sneer at him through the smoke. He’d seen enough to know that he’d die of inhalation before the worst of the burning would occur. His vision started to fade and his muscles went weak. Just as he blacked out, Sherlock had loosened one of the ropes of his pulley system and was swinging down from the bell tower balcony and into the city square. He cut the binding off John just as the pulley reversed and began to drag the both of them upwards.

Once they’d made it to the top, a surge of adrenaline hit and Sherlock hoisted John above his head screaming, “SANCTUARY!” over and over.

Moriarty did not let Sherlock’s action deter him as he ordered his new Captain, Moran, to seize the cathedral. Sherlock placed John onto his bed before rushing back out to defend the church.  He started throwing anything he could lift at the guards below as well as some of his chemical explosion mixtures.  In the chaos Mycroft was able to steal the keys off the guard beside him and began freeing himself and the other prisoners.  

As his men broke the heavy church doors with a plank, Sherlock threw down a cauldron of chemicals at the edge of the church. The fire from the still burning platform lit up the mixture and soon there was a moat of flames isolating the cathedral from the rest of the battle. Moriarty had crawled through the splintered opening before the flames obliterated his men. Archdeacon Anthea was waiting when he emerged into the church.

“Moriarty!” she cried, “Have you gone mad?! I will not tolerate this assault on the house of God.”

“Silence you fool!” Moriarty screamed as he sank the dagger into the woman’s stomach, “I will dirty my hands if it means the witch burns.”

Sherlock rushed to his bed when he saw the fight ending in their favor, “We’ve done it John! Come and see!”

But John remained motionless on the bed. The blood from his mouth had dried, staining his lips red, and his normally blond hair was grey from soot. Sherlock fell to his knees by the bed and began to run his hands over John’s face, begging him to be alive. He attempted to spoon water into the healers mouth but it merely trickled across his face and soon Sherlock’s tears joined as he clutched the smaller man.

He heard the creak of his tower door opening and felt a hand rest on his shoulder.

“You killed him,” he hissed to the visitor.

“It was my duty. Horrible as it was, I hope you can forgive me,” Moriarty rubbed soothing circles on Sherlock’s back, “there, there Sherlock. I know it hurts, but now the time has come to end your suffering…forever.”

Sherlock was expecting the attack from Moriarty and grabbed the man’s wrist before the knife could plunge into his back.  They struggled on the ground, wrestling for control until Moriarty wound up pressed against a wall with Sherlock holding the knife.

“What if I were to stab you now, right now?”

Moriarty smirked, “You could cherish the look of surprise on my face. I’d be surprised, Sherlock, I would.”

“All my life you’ve told me the world was a dark, cruel place but now I see the only thing dark and cruel about it is people like you!” Sherlock lifted the knife ready to attack when he heard his name.

“Sherlock?”

He rushed to John’s side pulling the man into his arms.

“He lives?” Moriarty grabbed for the sword he had hidden beneath his coat and withdrew it.

Sherlock saw the motion and took off past the man, carrying the weakened healer in his arms. When Moriarty followed, Sherlock had already pulled himself and John below the balcony on one of his pulleys.  The judge scoured about until he examined over the edge and saw the two men.

“Leaving so soon?” he snarled and swung the sword at them.

Using the pulley, Sherlock was able to drag them away from the blade in time. But the crazed man continued to follow them with grand swipes of his weapon.

“I should have known you’d risk your life to save that scientific witch. Just as your own mother died trying to save you.”

Sherlock, who had just lifted John back onto the balcony, turned to stare at his former master, “What?”

Moriarty raised his weapon but this time not to strike Sherlock, but to strike at the rope that was still supporting Sherlock’s weight, “Now I will do what I should have done twenty years ago!”

Before he could cut the line, John had grabbed a rope from a different pulley and wrapped it around Moriarty’s throat. The judge dropped his weapon and tried to pry his neck free. Sherlock climbed over the edge of the balcony in time to see Moriarty go limp in John’s hands. 

“You killed him.”

John looked at the judge, “Probably not. He’s only unconsciousness.”

Sherlock swooped down and pulled John into a crushing embrace and the two men held each other closely, ignoring the fight happening in the city square.

“Mycroft is my brother,” Sherlock finally spoke.

“I know; he told me last night.”

Disregarding his own painful emotions Sherlock asked, “Will you be with him?”

John pulled his head back from where it was cradled in the other man’s neck, “What do you mean?”

“It doesn’t bother me that you’re both men, if you love each other.”

With a laugh John pulled Sherlock into another tight hug, “it was never Mycroft. It’s always been you, Sherlock, you that I love.”

“Will you stay here, in the bell tower with me?” Sherlock asked pressing his lips against John’s cheeks repeatedly.

“Isn’t this touching,” Moriarty had climbed atop the railing of the balcony while the two men were engrossed with each other, “People do get sentimental. But you forget one thing, _you both belong to me!”_

Moriarty towered over them, his sword once more threatening their lives, when the stones beneath his feet gave out.  His body plummeted into the searing moat of fire that had claimed the lives of so many of his men. Sherlock and John watched the man meet his fate before they collapsed to the terrace floor, still clutching each other tightly and trading kisses.

* * *

When the fires had been extinguished and the charred body of Judge Jim Moriarty was found, Mycroft made his way up the bell tower stairs to find out the fate of his brother. He opened the door to see his brother curled up in bed beside John; both looked exhausted but alive. Greg, who had been trailing Mycroft since the battle ended, made a loud noise and proceeded to head-butt John until the healer opened his eyes.

“Yes, yes I’m happy to see you too!” the man groaned.

Sherlock rushed up when he saw Mycroft and gave the man a large smile, “What are you to do next?”

Mycroft shrugged, “They’ll need someone to upkeep the church while Archdeacon Anthea recovers from her injury. Perhaps I will do that. And you brother?”

“The bells are my life, but John and I were thinking I could mix him healing elixirs so he can still take care of the sick.”  

John came up behind Sherlock and wrapped his arms around his waist, “Can’t have all his brilliant ideas staying locked in this tower.”

Mycroft chuckled, “Quite true. But come now, I need to show you something.”

Exchanging quizzical looks, John and Sherlock followed him down the stairs and out into the city square. When they arrived a large mass of people were gathered and upon seeing Sherlock they began to cheer and praise the hero who’d saved them all. 


End file.
